


Song of the Last Day

by Saucery



Series: Space Husbands [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek (2009), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Adolescence is Both Awkward and Awful, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst and Humor, Badass Vulcan is Badass, Bonding, Boners, Consent Issues, Courtship, Crossover, Derek is a Scowly Vulcan, Drama, Extinction, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, Loneliness, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Military Ranks, Moral Ambiguity, Near-Death Experience, Pon Farr, Psychic Bond, Romance, Science Fiction, Sewunteen, Sneaky Ensign is Sneaky, Star-Crossed (Quite Literally), Steamrolled, Stiles is a Gratuitously Underage Ensign, Survival, Survivor Guilt, Teenage Hormones, Teenagers, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy, Trauma, Vulcan, Werewolf Symbolism (But Without the Werewolves)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:12:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Officer D'rek wants to Pon Farr the hell out of little Ensign Stilinski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

  
  
Art by Amanda Culver.   


* * *

 

When Stiles is commissioned to the _Monitor_ (most boring name ever for a starship, but it _is_ an awesome ship), he doesn't actually expect to be the youngest member of the crew. There have to be more than a few teenage geniuses in Starfleet, right? He knows of two, off the top of his head - Ensigns Chekov and Martin, the former being one of the great heroes of the recent battle against the Romulans, and the latter being Stiles's astrophysics crush for the better part of his time as a cadet. Seriously, her _brain_. And her body. And her… yeah. The one thing he sort of misses about being a cadet is being able to see her in her reds, sitting ramrod-straight in the first row, eyes flashing with righteous wrath at some mathematical error made by the TA. (Stiles privately thought the TA did it deliberately, just to get her to look at him.)

But Lydia Martin was assigned to the _Liberty_ , and Stiles was assigned to the _Monitor_ , and never (or hardly ever) the twain shall meet. Oh, well. He still keeps tabs on her career in a totally non-creepy way, over Starnet, and catches occasional stills and holograms of her doing mission-type things, with this annoying jock by her side. Ensign Whittemore. Damn him and his perfect cheekbones. And his mouth. And his… yeah. Wait, Stiles is supposed to be perving on Lydia. Not that he's perving on her. That would be wrong.

"Ensign," says a low, gravelly voice behind him, and Stiles snaps to attention. He hopes to hell he managed to hide what he had on his screen (a close-up of Jackson Whittemore's fine ass, clad in snug Engineering gold).

"Yes, sir." Stiles tries not to hyperventilate. Because it's Commander D'rek, _First Officer_ D'rek, scowly and sour-faced as usual. Aren't Vulcans supposed to be expressionless? D'rek always looks like he's dying of man-pain. Not that it isn't a good look on him, but still.

"You have been selected for the away mission Beta-Four-Nine as an auxiliary technician. You will report to the transporter room at 2145 hours. Full objectives, translator settings and weapons specifications pertinent to the mission will be made available on your console." D'rek's eyes flick to Stiles's console, and his eyebrows twitch, which, shit, probably means I Am Judging You in Vulcanese. Because, as it happens, Stiles _hadn't_ managed to minimize that image of Whittemore's ass.

"Sir, I'm - "

"It appears that you have completed your calculations, as you have time to engage in recreational… activities."

"Uh. Yeah? I - I was done with the calculations, like, an hour ago."

D'rek's eyebrows twitch again. They're really bold eyebrows, for a Vulcan, not the slinky little things Stiles often sees on Vulcan faces. Hell, those aren't just eyebrows; they're ultimatums. Stiles kind of feels like he should be putting his hands up and surrendering all his gold. To the eyebrow highwaymen. The eyebrow pirates. The eyebrow _buccaneers_. "Your work is swift."

"I… um, not to toot my own horn, sir, but - " teenage genius, here " - decoding transmissions is sort of my specialty. I'm still really sorry, though, for wasting crucial ship time on - on personal interests of, uh, a personal nature - "

"After the mission, you will accompany me to the bridge and assist Ensigns Markov and Patel in their calculations."

The bridge? Wow. Markov and Patel will resent the hell out of him, though. Most of the ensigns do, sooner or later. Which is why Stiles usually eats alone in the mess hall. Which is why he hardly ever eats _at_ the mess hall. "Thank you, sir." _I think._

"In the future, if you have completed your work in advance of the given deadline, you will report to me and ask to be assigned new tasks. Further… leisure pursuits during your rostered shifts will be seen as a dereliction of duty, and will lead to disciplinary action. Have I made myself understood?"

"Yes, sir." Oh, crap. He's on the commander's black-list, now. On the one hand, he's really lucky that Commander D'rek is being lenient enough to give him a second chance, but on the other hand, most people on the commander's black-list don't survive their first rotation without time in the brig or on-record reprimands. Careers have been ruined.

D'rek moves his fingers over Stiles's console, ignores the pseudo-pornographic image and studies Stiles's calculations, instead. They're pretty goddamn elegant, if Stiles says so himself, because subspace transmissions are a bitch to decode when you're dealing with interference _and_ gamma rays from a mile-wide neutron field. "There is not a single error in these equations," D'rek murmurs, and looks up at Stiles.

Yes? Thanks? Eek? What's he supposed to say? "That's, um. That's - "

D'rek's eyes are a cold, assessing blue. "As of tomorrow, you are permanently reassigned to the bridge."

Wait, what?

"Ensign Markov will take your station."

"Um. Sir, maybe Ensign Markov might, like - " _kill me in my sleep?_ " - want to keep his station? The station he was originally assigned to?"

"Sentiment is irrelevant. Utility is paramount."

Holy _fuck_.

"I will advise the captain of this change. He will agree with me, once he sees the quality of your work."

This is either the biggest compliment Stiles has ever received, or the most subtly vindictive death trap ever constructed. Forget eating alone in the mess hall - Stiles will end up lynched in some random cargo bay. "Thank you, sir." Why is thanking D'rek for fucking up his life becoming a pattern? Shit. _Shit._

"Gratitude is irrelevant. Utility - "

" - is paramount, yes, sir. Uh. Sorry for interrupting."

"Your role in the away mission has also been revised. You will now be the primary technician."

"Who _was_ the primary technician, sir? Who'll, um, now be an auxiliary?"

"Ensign Patel."

Great. Just great. Maybe by the time this week is through, Stiles's body parts will actually be found in less than five separate containers.

"Do you disagree with your reassignment."

Whoa. That wasn't even a question. That wasn't even pretending to be a question. There was no question-mark at the end of that sentence. "No, sir. I follow orders, sir."

"That is as it should be. Report to the transporter room at the aforementioned time."

"Yes, sir."

"You will now return to your quarters and spend the remainder of the evening preparing for the mission as per your new role. Ensure that you have all the necessary supplies. The authorization code for the Requisitions replicator, should you require it, will be sent to your PADD."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

So. Stiles is dismissed. Stiles is also very likely sentenced to death, so he'd better write a brief letter to his dad telling him how awesome life is and how many friends he's made on his new ship, so that when he does end up dead, at least the last memory Dad will have of him is a happy one.

 

* * *

 

He isn't, miraculously, dead by the end of the week. Or the end of the month. He's settled down on the bridge, and even though all the other ensigns hate him, none of them dare to mess with his results or try to get him into trouble, because Commander D'rek is right there, glowering down at them like the world's most logical hawk.

Stiles… likes his work, here. He doesn't get bored. There's always something going on, whether it's First Contact with a species of jellyfish-headed religious extremists, or asteroid clusters that turn out to be sentient mineral-beings.

And Captain Argent, while scary in a whole 'nother way, has this dry, ribbing sense of humor that tends to get D'rek's back up, and that alone is worth being on the bridge for, just to see D'rek get wound up like that.

For someone who calls emotions 'irrelevant', D'rek sure has plenty of them to go around.

 

* * *

 

Is it just Stiles, or is Commander D'rek getting more and more constipated?

Turns out, it isn't just Stiles. He doesn't have access to the grapevine, mostly because he's a pariah among the ensigns, but Stiles _has_ overheard the odd, muted complaint about how anal-retentive the First Officer is becoming. More so than he used to be, even. People tend to vanish whenever D'rek walks down a hallway, like ghosts before an oncoming exorcist, and it'd almost be funny if it wasn't kind of sad. D'rek's an asshole, but he isn't evil, Stiles doesn't think. And Stiles knows what ostracization feels like.

Stiles doesn't know what to do with that - he isn't exactly supposed to be sympathizing with the bane of his existence - so he just acts like he always does, and chitters and chatters about equations and anomalies and the provability of increasingly ridiculous theorems, until the line of D'rek's shoulders eases, a bit, and he replies in a voice that resembles his normal one, instead of the tight, strained whip of a voice it often is, nowadays.

 

* * *

 

It's on his third away mission that things go to hell.

They've been trying to obey the Prime Directive, they really have, but with deceptively anachronistic spear-lasers waving in their faces, they've had to blow their cover, and in the ensuing escape, the planet's natives have managed to use something resembling a mine to bring a fucking landslide down on them.

And so Stiles is left contemplating his demise with Commander D'rek unconscious and spilled across Stiles's lap, bleeding bright green from a deep gash in his forehead, while Stiles himself has his leg crushed under a rock the size of a small shuttlecraft.

He _hurts_ , but mostly, all he can think of is what a relief it is that the rest of the team got away, and how fucked up it'll be if D'rek dies here, with his head cradled in Stiles's arms, when he should be shattering boulders with his bare fists. D'rek is frankly badass. When he's conscious, anyway. Shit.

"You better not die," says Stiles. "I mean, I may never walk again, not without a prosthetic leg, but you are not going to be the first corpse I get intimate with, you hear me? …Ugh, that sounds gross and vaguely necrophiliac. Relax, I'm not into corpses. Not even the hot ones. And you'd be a hot one. But, just, _no_ , dude. I don't swing that way. Deathly pallor? Not a turn-on. Rigor mortis? Nuh-uh. Jesus Christ, Corpse Bride, wake up."

But D'rek doesn't stir. Green blood seeps out of his cut, sluggish and sharp-smelling, like something out of that twentieth-century post-apocalyptic holovid that Scott had thought was hilarious, what was it called? _Soylent Green_. Stiles tears off his sleeve with his teeth and tries to staunch the bleeding, but maybe Vulcan blood just doesn't _clot_ , or something, because soon, Stiles's hands are slick and trembling and slipping on D'rek's face.

"Freakin' A. As if reassigning me and turning my life upside-down wasn't enough, you've gotta become my worst memory? Come on, man. Vulcan. Vul-man. You don't wanna give an innocent ensign nightmares for the rest of his life, do you? That'll be cruel. Even for you. I mean, you're a harsh taskmaster, but - fuck, is that blood bubbling out of your mouth? Since when're you bleeding from your orifices? Oh, crap, when you wake up, you're going to court-martial me for being a necrophiliac. A zombie-lover. I can't stop talking about holes - you have a giant one in your _head_ \- I'm grossing myself out and I can't even stop - "

And so it goes. For minutes. Hours. Maybe even days, Stiles can't be sure, but there's the sound of phaser-fire overhead, above where the landslide happened, and then it stops, and then it starts again, and Stiles is dizzy with weakness and desperation and a stark, solitary agony. His leg feels like crushed glass. His stomach is an acid pit, boiling away in hunger, and his throat is parched because he keeps talking, but he can't stop talking, not if it means leaving D'rek alone in there, in the darkness inside his own head. It's totally unscientific and medically unproven, but Stiles gets the feeling that if anyone's left alone in there, they'll never come back.

So he talks. He talks about everything. About Lydia's fabulous tits, not that he's ever actually seen them, but still. About his best friend back home, Scott, who couldn't get into Starfleet but resigned himself to working as a barista at the biggest Starbucks on the base. About Allysonne, Scott's Amazonian alien girlfriend from a matriarchal planet, who is, apparently, also the best in her Projectile Weapons class. About Stiles's dad, who's the best dad ever, because his hugs are better than deregulated anti-depressants, and Stiles should know, because he'd been on them, once. (After Mom died.) He talks about the best pizza in the known universe, which is clearly the marinara from Geppetto's down on Fifth, and about the worst souvlaki, also from down on Fifth, which nearly killed Stiles after two weeks of unbearable diarrhea.

"Man, lemme just say, if that souvlaki didn't kill me? Nothing will. Not even this. A landslide in the middle of a hostile planet on which the chances of rescue are near-nil. You don't have Post-Traumatic Souvlaki Disorder, like I do, so you'd probably say survival is statistically unlikely, or whatever. Well, go to hell, Commander. No disrespect. Logic has no place in the utter insanity of this world. Then again, your supernaturally ripped abs don't have any logic to them, either. Seriously, which gym do you go to? The one on Mount Olympus? Does Hercules check you out from a nearby treadmill? What?"

But before Stiles can get to his best lines - he's a conversationalist bar none, obviously - something blasts through the rocks overhead, and Chief Engineer Finstock booms down at them.

"You alive down there?"

Stiles squints up at him, through the drifting post-explosion dust, and hoarsely shouts an answer. The next thing he knows, he's been beamed up to sickbay, and the lights are fucking _bright_ , boring through his skull like screwdrivers. Dr. Deaton's next to him, prying D'rek from Stiles's surprisingly stubborn fingers, murmuring quiet things, soothing things.

"How long were you touching him?" Dr. Deaton asks, as Nurse Yska runs a full-body scan on D'rek. Stiles's leg has been immobilized on the biobed, and he can't feel it, but at this point, he doesn't even care. He just slurps from the cup of water they've handed to him, sloshing it everywhere, cold and stinging over his torn knuckles. Not enough to wash the green away.

"Huh?"

"The commander," repeats Dr. Deaton, gently. "How long were you touching him, Ensign?"

What is this, the 'bad touch' spiel? Does Stiles suddenly resemble a nasty old lech? "Look, I was just - I dunno, how long were we down there?"

"Three days."

"That's how long, then." His head is swimming. He needs to sleep, but he can't seem to take his eyes off D'rek.

"Hm," says Dr. Deaton, and it's exactly the same 'hm' Stiles had come to dread from his dentist, because it had always meant losing a tooth. Fuck.

"What? What does that - is he gonna be okay? Shouldn't I have touched him? Did I - did I damage something?" Oh, no. _No._ If D'rek dies - if it's Stiles's fault -

"No, no, nothing like that," the doctor rushes to assure him. "Nothing bad, at all."

Nothing bad. But not nothing worse?

Before Stiles can ask about that, he's jabbed with a hypospray, something that makes him all woozy and light, and he only just manages to stretch his hand out toward D'rek - still and quiet on the neighboring biobed - before he passes out.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

Going from zero to hero is pretty fucking strange. All of a sudden, everyone wants to talk to Stiles. He's the guy who nearly lost a leg after surviving enforced starvation under a landslide in the midst of enemy fire (although what's so heroic about being trapped under a rock, like a snail, Stiles doesn't know), and he's the guy who apparently kept Commander D'rek alive by touching him and talking to him, since Vulcans are touch telepaths and they need to be kept 'psychically stable', or something.

Stiles had no idea he was doing that. He'd just - done what he had to do.

But saying that only makes people more starry-eyed, so Stiles mostly sticks to his console and avoids talking to anyone unless it's for work. What's weird is that a couple weeks ago, he would've loved this sort of attention, but now it just makes him queasy. He keeps rubbing his hands over his uniform, because sometimes, they still feel slick with blood, and he keeps flashing back to the image of D'rek's pale, slack face.

Shit. The fucker really did traumatize him. And he isn't even polite enough to wake the hell up, which means Stiles has to keep visiting him, keep talking to him, even though Captain Argent tells him that it's okay, that D'rek's been stabilized, that he'll wake up any day, now. Any day.

The captain also insists that Stiles see Lieutenant Danee, the ship's counselor and resident Betazoid, who's way too young and sexy for a job that involves dealing with vulnerable, hormone-driven officers.

"So, how many times a month do you get propositioned, anyway?" Stiles asks him.

"Why, are you going to do it, too?"

Stiles gives it some serious consideration. "No," he says, finally. "I mean, don't get me wrong, you're very attractive - in a deadpan prince kind of way - "

"Deadpan prince?" echoes Danee, somewhat faintly.

"But I'm all worn out, right now. Which is why I'm here, obviously. The captain thinks I'm practically dead on my feet."

"How are you sleeping?"

"Not at all."

"What do you think about, when you're not sleeping?"

"Boobs, mostly. And D'rek. Commander D'rek. Not with boobs. I mean, not Command D'rek _with_ boobs - more like, Commander D'rek _and_ boobs. Completely unrelated boobs. _Not his boobs_ \- "

Danee holds up a hand. His eyes are a little wide, but his voice, when he speaks, is more even than a goddamn keel. "Thank you for that mental image."

"Heh. Deadpan prince."

Danee sighs. "And when did you stop touching him?"

"What?"

"When you were on the planet," Danee clarifies. "How long did you touch him for?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that? I didn't molest him while he was unconscious, okay? No matter how ripped a guy is, the fact that he's bleeding to death pretty much ruins any latent homoeroticism there might be in being trapped together in a confined space. Also, my leg was crushed to bits, which meant I couldn't have gotten jiggy with it even if I wanted to. Happy?"

"So you didn't stop touching him until he was back onboard."

Stiles huffs. "Yeah. I - what's the big deal with that? Isn't it supposed to be a good thing? Keeping him… psychically stable, or whatever?"

"Yes, well, under normal conditions…" Danee trails off. "I'm sorry. You'd best hear it from the commander, when he wakes up. To say anything to you, without his consent, would be a breach of patient confidentiality."

Stiles's gut clenches. "I fucked something up, didn't I."

"Ensign - "

" _Didn't I._ "

"You sound like Commander D'rek when you refuse to punctuate properly," Danee observes, peacefully. There's something that resembles a smile on his face. Except that it isn't a smile; it's more a subtle shifting of facial features that doesn't change his expression, at all. He'd make a better Vulcan than a Betazoid, damn him. Maybe he and D'rek were switched at birth.

"Aren't you supposed to be empathizing with me? Aren't you, like, an empath?"

"Oh, would you look at the time," Danee says. "See you next week?"

Stiles glares.

"The commander would've awakened, by then. I can't discuss this any further with you, until he's awake and has given me permission to do so. But you can always consult me about other things, in the meantime."

"Other things," Stiles repeats. "Like the Lakers, maybe, and how much they suck. Or the fact that Nurse Yska is having another woman's baby. Or the fact that the replicators keep turning every drink into seaweed slushies. Yeah, I'm absolutely interested in random gossip and sports scores and ship malfunctions. Why would I wanna talk about _Commander D'rek_ after being trapped on an alien planet with him and almost dying together? Sheesh."

"Sarcasm will get you everywhere," Danee deadpans, in his princely way, and points to the door.

"Thanks so much for your time, Lieutenant," Stiles says, acid-sweet, and this time, Danee _does_ smile.

"You're welcome. And don't worry, Ensign Stilinski. Commander D'rek will be fine."

 

* * *

 

D'rek _is_ fine. Very fine. It's a toss-up (or, heh, a toss-off) whether it's his pecs or his abs that're finer (Stiles _has_ seen the guy work out), but he's just really damn fine, in general.

Still, that isn't the point, here.

The point is that, as Stiles hovers near the biobed and tries not to act like he's having an aneurysm (he totally is; he doesn't get why Dr. Deaton keeps telling him he's all right), D'rek's brainwaves start spiking, changing from delta to theta to beta.

D'rek's waking up.

His chapped lips part.

"Dr. Deaton," says D'rek, in a perfectly normal tone, like he's just strolling in to say hello, not that D'rek says hello to anyone, or - or strolls, but, fuck. Can't he sound even a little upset? Jittery? _Concerned?_ "Is it safe for me to open my eyes?"

"You don't have any optical damage, no. Go ahead and open your eyes."

D'rek opens his eyes.

Stiles catches his breath.

D'rek immediately looks at him, as sharp and aware as if he hasn't just surfaced from a six-day coma. "Ensign Stilinski," he says, in exactly the same tone, and suddenly, Stiles wants to break something.

"Fuck you," he says, before he can stop himself. "Just - what the hell did you - what were you - "

"I will not discipline you for your insubordination, as these are exceptional circumstances."

"Exceptional, my ass. You nearly _died_ \- "

"Ensign. Stand down."

Stiles's body… relaxes. As if on instinct. Stupid Starfleet training. "How'd you know you were in sickbay, sir?" he asks, instead, after taking a minute to compose himself. "Before you opened your eyes, I mean."

"The beeping of the medical devices is distinctive. Are you well?" D'rek glances down at Stiles's leg, and Stiles shifts uncomfortably.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Still need a bit of physio, but - " Stiles blinks. "Hey, wait, how'd you know about my leg? Weren't you passed out, down there?"

D'rek is quiet. Then, he says: "I was continuously aware of your mind. Of your thoughts."

"Uh." Touching. Touching a touch telepath. Not just essential to maintaining psychic stability, but also essential to absolutely humiliating the ensign doing the maintaining. Was this what Danee was trying to warn him about? Too fucking late. "Right. So. You heard everything _?_ Everything I was saying? Everything I was _thinking_?"

"Yes."

Fuck. He's told D'rek his life story. So his First Officer is now the person who knows the most about him in the entire world, including that time Stiles wet his bed and didn't tell his dad about it. Having a superior officer know that kind of shit about him… Crap. If that isn't awkward, Stiles doesn't know what is. He decides to repress the whole thing and freak out about it later. "How… are you?"

"I, too, am well. My body and mind appear to have healed." D'rek turns to Dr. Deaton. "When will I be free to return to active duty, Doctor?"

Deaton waves his scanner. "A couple of hours. You seem to be fully recovered, but we need to monitor your vitals for a while longer. I've notified Captain Argent that you'll be restricted to light duties for a week."

For a moment, D'rek gets this bull-headed (for a Vulcan) look on his face, like he's going to object to the light duties, and Stiles's heart clenches in anxiety.

D'rek… pauses. And meets Stiles's eyes.

"Very well, Doctor," he says, eventually. "And… thank you, Ensign."

"What?" Stiles startles so badly, he jumps. Just, 'thank you' is the last thing he'd ever expected D'rek to say to him. Or to anyone, for that matter. Wasn't gratitude supposed to be 'irrelevant'? Maybe Stiles just popped D'rek's gratitude cherry. The thought is mind-boggling.

"You saved my life."

Stiles's pulse is hammering. Which is ridiculous, it's not like he's at phaser-point, but there's an edge to D'rek's new focus on him that makes him feel cornered. "I just sat around," he says, more squeakily than he'd like. "You - you were the one who hung in there." Stiles swallows. "Thank _you_."

"For what do you thank me?"

Stiles shrugs and looks away. "For not dying on me."

The silence stretches.

There's something taut in it, some quality of tightening tension that makes the space between D'rek and Stiles seem like it's shrinking, somehow, or collapsing in on itself, like a folding star. Several equations about dimensional shifts and the [Elway Theorem](http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Elway_Theorem) flit through Stiles's mind, bright as birds.

Dr. Deaton is staring at them.

Nurse Yska is staring at them.

Stiles's throat is getting drier by the second, and he doesn't even know why.

"I, uh, I'd better get back to my console," he says, finally, when it becomes evident that no one's going to rescue him from this pit of incomprehensible, self-imposed awkwardness.

"Indeed," says D'rek, almost dryly. "Else, I would have to discipline you for dereliction of duty. Again."

"You never did discipline me, sir."

"Did I not? How remiss of me."

Holy crap. D'rek is joking. _D'rek_ is joking. Or Stiles hopes he's joking, anyway, because if he isn't, Stiles definitely is going to get court-martialed for non-practicing necrophilia. Like people used to get court-martialed for non-practicing homosexuality. Back in the day. (It isn't even surprising how tolerant society's become after encountering species with, like, five different sexes, or in some cases, no sexes at all. Pretty much the only thing that's taboo nowadays is corpse-fucking, unless you're a Dorathian, in which case, it's a compulsory part of every funeral service.)

Somehow, he manages to back out of the door without tripping over his own feet - and he can't explain why he backs out, instead of just, like, walking out, other than the fact that it keeps D'rek within visual range for a little longer.

Not that he wants to keep looking at that sour Vulcan face. That _living_ Vulcan face. That living, breathing, threatening-disciplinary-action-but-not-really face.

D'rek is alive.

He's - he's alive. And now, he's awake.

When Stiles returns to his console, he finds himself literally, physiologically incapable of understanding what the hell he's seeing on his screen. He just sits there, heart still thrumming, like a string on a Vulcan lute that keeps vibrating after it's been plucked.

 

* * *

 

The commander returns to the bridge, every bit as stern and stiff-backed as ever, except for this weird tendency to crowd Stiles against his console in order to ask perfectly normal questions that don't require a gross violation of personal space. He also spends countless minutes just… watching Stiles. Creepily. From the command deck.

"Did you make him mad?" Ensign Patel whispers, now that she's decided that talking to Stiles is worth her time. "I thought you saved his life."

"So did I," Stiles mutters, ignoring the hair-raising feeling that comes from being skewered on the pointy ends of a pointy-eared bastard's pointy eyes. Great, now he's got goosebumps.

After another half-hour of it, though, he's had enough of the heebie-jeebies.

"Excuse me, sir." Stiles swivels his chair around, until he's looking up at D'rek on the command deck. "Did you want something?"

D'rek just keeps watching him. "Yes," he says, after a while.

And? "Is it something I can do?"

"Yes," says D'rek, and… leaves the bridge.

Okay.

_Okay._

"He's back to being freaky, isn't he?" Patel sounds nervous, as well she should; D'rek's got that ticking time-bomb thing going on.

"He was always freaky." Stiles turns back to his console, unsettled. "But he's being freaki _er_."

 

* * *

 

  
Stiles doesn't realize how freaky that is, until he gets back to his quarters and takes off his jacket and turns around, and… D'rek is on his couch.

D'rek is on his _couch_. What -

Stiles stumbles back against the door.

"Ensign Stilinski," D'rek greets him, politely, like they're just passing each other in the hallway.

"You're - " Stiles gapes. "Sir, did I do anything wrong?"

"Wrong?" D'rek tilts his head. "No."

"Uh." Stiles's mind races. Sure, the captain and the first officer have blanket access to crew quarters, in case of emergencies, but there isn't anything resembling a ship-wide red alert, right now. "All right. I. You're in my room, sir."

"Yes," D'rek says, and gets up. And stalks toward Stiles, eyes a flatter blue than usual - a hot, arid, alien blue, unthinking as an animal's.

Stiles's heartbeat ratchets right up. This can't be real. It's like some crazy acid trip, but without the acid. Unless that drink Patel shared with him after his shift was way more than it seemed to be.

He should say something. Possibly, he should scream something, or just squeal like a stuck pig or a three-year-old girl, but all he can do is stand there, breathless and numb with a sort of yawning, inchoate panic. D'rek's gone Dark Side. Clearly. Maybe his recent near-death experience fried his circuits. Shish-kebabed his neurons. Fiddled his fiddlesticks. Did to him what the annihilation of Romulus did to Nero.

"S-sir," Stiles begins, but then, D'rek is right there, or rather, right _here_. All over here. All over Stiles. Pushing him back against the door. "F-fuck - "

"Yes," says D'rek, and Stiles wonders if that's the only word psycho-D'rek can say. But then, D'rek continues: "That is what you can do for me."

It takes several seconds - or a stretching, agonizing eternity - to figure out what D'rek means. The realization swoops through Stiles, slow and heavy and dark, like a bird of prey, casting its shadow over everything.

D'rek's hands come up to cup his face.

Stiles _jerks_ backward, hitting his head on the door.

D'rek touches him, anyway, gentle but implacable, fingertips pressing against Stiles's temples. D'rek's thumbs settle on Stiles's jaw, then slide down to his throat, above his collar.

Stiles shivers.

It's -

It's not -

Stiles feels hot, sick, terrified, betrayed. The pads of D'rek's thumbs are callused, hardened with years of handling consoles and phasers, and they're -

They're everything that's wrong with this situation. D'rek's hands are huge, huge and lived-in and experienced. They're the hands of a commanding officer. An older commanding officer. An alien with three times the strength of a human. A bully that apparently thinks he can intimidate a subordinate officer into having sex - Stiles had thought D'rek was _better_ than that -

"You mistake me," D'rek murmurs, a moment before Stiles remembers the touch-telepathy, remembers that D'rek can hear every thought in Stiles's brain. "Were you, also, a telepath, you would understand."

"Well, I'm not a telepath. Sorry about that."

"Your apology is illogical, as is your fear. Once you meld with me, you will see that."

Meld. What -

D'rek's fingers dig into his temples, not enough to hurt but enough to call attention to themselves, and D'rek's voice drops to a whisper - a sinuous, rasping whisper. "My mind to your mind. My thoughts to - "

" _No!_ " Stiles shoves D'rek away - or tries to - and D'rek doesn't budge, of course, but he does stop the meld. He looks mildly surprised.

"You are genuinely terrified," D'rek says, and his eyes are less flat, now, more normal. He looks strangely lost, for a moment, the kind of lost Stiles had expected him to be in sickbay. It makes something inside Stiles twist. "I - I do not intend to injure you."

"Then maybe you could _not force a mind-meld_ on me? That would be great. Sir."

But D'rek doesn't move away. There's still that falcon-sharp hunger to him, a spareness to his features, the spareness that belongs on a starving man. "You…" He removes his hands and rests them on the door-panel, on either side of Stiles, not touching him. "I will not force a meld on you. That is - that is not the Vulcan way."

"And demanding s-sex, sir?" Stiles hates himself for stuttering. "Is that the Vulcan way?"

An expression flickers briefly across D'rek's face - a contortion that could be rage or horror - but it's gone before Stiles can make sense of it. "No," he says, and, shit, Stiles shouldn't have mentioned sex, shouldn't have spoken the _word_ , because D'rek's eyes are going flat, again. And they're fixed on Stiles's mouth.

His -

Fuck, Stiles's dick is taking this particular moment to wake up and join the party, but Stiles is going to ignore it because his dick is a self-centered prick. So to speak.

"Sir, I - "

"Your refusal is illogical. You desire me."

"Uh…"

"I have seen your thoughts. You have long viewed me as sexually attractive. Now, your body is reflecting that attraction."

Stiles splutters. And tries not to squeeze his legs together to hide his hard-on, because a) it won't actually work and b) he'll only look like a toddler that really, really needs to go to the toilet. "I - idle thoughts don't mean - I've even had the odd sexy thought about Captain Argent, okay, I'm _seventeen_ , I'm practically an erection on two legs - "

"Your fantasies regarding me are not 'idle'. They are repetitive and detailed."

Stiles flushes.

"Comparatively, your fantasies regarding the captain are non-existent; you have merely noted his aesthetic appeal. You have not desired that he immobilize you with one hand and masturbate you with the other, nor have you desired that he mount you while you sleep - "

"Okay, just - stop. _Stop._ " Stiles wants to die. Or just disappear into the nearest worm-hole and never, ever come back. "Please. I - you weren't supposed to _know_ any of that - "

"I am amenable. To all of that."

Stiles stares. His dick is on the brink of staging a one-man - one-penis - coup. A hostile takeover. Stiles can feel his hips starting to twitch. "No. _No._ Just because you heard a couple stray thoughts, doesn't give you the right to - to - "

"Mount you," D'rek says, slowly, precisely. His pupils are blown. "I… will. Mount. You."

Holy shit. Sex-crazed Vulcans weren't part of Starfleet's Interspecies Relations seminars. And Stiles is finding it harder and harder - pun intended - to think with anything not located on his crotch.

But there's a reason this is wrong. Bad-wrong. Several reasons, even. Not least of which - now that Stiles has stopped panicking long enough to process it - is the fact that D'rek's never acted like this before, and maybe he's been dosed with sex pollen or dirilium radiation or -

Or -

_Fuck._

"This is the Pon Farr, isn't it," says Stiles, weakly. It all adds up. D'rek's increasing agitation, even before the away-mission. The reason both Deaton and Danee were worried about how long Stiles had been touching D'rek. The reason D'rek keeps eyeballing him, like he's the freshest cut of meat in a butcher's shop.

"Yes," growls D'rek, almost subvocal. He's leaning in toward Stiles. His hands are inching closer, as if drawn to Stiles magnetically.

Right. Starfleet has only learned about Pon Farr after the destruction of Vulcan, as the Vulcan High Council thought it more logical to release information that might make it easier for the few surviving Vulcans to find compatible mates, since the pool of potential candidates from their own species was now limited, and telepathic compatibility was no longer guaranteed among those that remained.

The idea that _Stiles_ is apparently compatible - with a _Vulcan_ \- is bizarre enough, even leaving aside the wackier side-note that said Vulcan is his commanding officer.

"Don't," says Stiles, when D'rek's fingers almost brush him.

D'rek freezes. He's panting, like he's been running instead of standing still, and he looks less like an intelligent life-form than something feral, with fangs and claws and fur, about to bite.

Stiles has a thing for biting, but that's neither here nor there -

Especially not here -

At least, not right _now_ -

Focus. _Focus._

"You're a baby duckling," Stiles blurts, and D'rek… stops. And looks at him. Fine, so that might've been a ridiculous enough non-sequitur to even break through a Pon Farr haze, but it's true. "A scary baby duckling - a terrifying baby duckling, sure, but - you've just imprinted on me. It's all those days of touching. It's not - it's not _me_ , it's - "

"It is you. Only you." There's a scraping, metallic sound, and Stiles realizes that it's D'rek's nails, scratching the door-panel. Jesus. How close _is_ he to going Frankenstein? "The beginnings of a bond cannot only be established by physical proximity. There must be true compatibility, else my mind would not reach for yours, unsatisfied, at least once every zero-point-four hours."

"Th-that often?" Stiles is pretty sure nobody has ever thought of Stiles that frequently. Hell, even Stiles doesn't think of Stiles that frequently.

"I have been without a mate for six Terran years. In that time, I have been actively seeking another mate. I have not found one. Until now."

Six - six _years_. Six years of searching, and Stiles is all D'rek can come up with?

"Consent to me." D'rek's starting to look wild. "Consent. To a meld. You will see - "

"I don't… I don't mean to. Make you suffer, sir, but - "

D'rek's brows lower. His voice goes from the consistency of gravel to the consistency of rock. "I will have you as my mate."

What does he mean, 'will'? "Aren't you, like, supposed to ask?"

D'rek frowns. Thoughtfully. Then says: "I would have you as my mate."

Stiles boggles. "That isn't, actually, a question. You basically just replaced 'will' with 'would', how is that even - "

"The first was a statement of fact. The second was a request."

"Um. Maybe in the _middle ages_ , sir."

"Speak to Lieutenant Danee," says D'rek, and that - that's not a request. It's a command. "Tomorrow. Discuss with him, in his capacity as ship's counselor, whether or not you wish to consent to me. If you do not, then you should - stay away. From me. Leave the bridge. Take up your previous post, and replace Ensign Markov at his console, until such time as my Pon Farr is over."

"Shouldn't - shouldn't I be talking it over with you?"

"No extended interaction with me will stay limited to the non-telepathic - or the non-sexual."

Stiles gulps. "Um." It's true that D'rek still looks like he's about a split second away from tearing the uniform off of Stiles and nailing him, right here, against the door. Which isn't, sadly, doing anything to make Stiles's hard-on go back down. "All… all right. I'll - I'll talk to Danee."

"Lieutenant Danee."

"Lieutenant Danee," Stiles corrects.

"Do you know him personally."

"What?"

"You refer to him by his name. Do you - "

"No!" Stiles yelps, because D'rek's eyes are going from psycho-horny to psycho-murderous. "No, I - it's just that he's closer to my age, and - I didn't think about what I was saying - "

"You are friends."

"Not even that," Stiles assures him, then wonders how insane it is that he's assuring his Pon Farr-ed commander that he's sexually and romantically available. Shit. "Sir, this is - maybe you should. Go, now?"

D'rek breathes. And doesn't withdraw a single nanometer. If D'rek were a human, Stiles would just say that D'rek had a seriously bad case of indigestion, but on a Vulcan, that expression probably translates to 'tormented'. Very, very tormented. Eighteen-century-novel tormented. Ghost-haunting-a-ghost-ship tormented.

"I'm sorry," he says, before he can stop himself - he has _nothing_ to apologize for - and that, apparently, is something D'rek agrees with.

"No," D'rek shakes his head, and gradually pulls away - with excruciating slowness, as if he's literally tearing himself away, and his skin keeps catching on hooks. Stiles-shaped hooks. "Your… apology is illogical."

"Look, either my fear is illogical, or my apology is illogical. Can't be both."

"Humans," says D'rek, "are not logical."

"Good," Stiles says, letting his own sweat-slick palms slide down the door. He won't slump in relief, though. Not yet. Not until D'rek is gone. "It's good that you, um. Know that."

"I know my crew."

"Yeah." Stiles _is_ D'rek's crew. And fraternization isn't legally banned in Starfleet, unless it's coercive or corrupts the command structure, but Stiles can't see how just agreeing to anything his First Officer says, without even knowing exactly what the hell he's agreeing to, wouldn't be coercive. Or corruptive of the command structure.

"You will inform me when you have spoken to Lieutenant Danee."

"I'll - I'll let you know. What decision I. Um. Reach. How long do you have? Before the… the final stage of the Pon Farr?"

"You must inform me immediately - "

" _How long_. Sir."

"Three weeks," says D'rek, "and four days."

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. "So you don't really have the time. To find someone else. And - won't you _die_ if you don't mate?"

"I will not coerce you."

"That's not what I'm - what were you planning on doing? Before I came along?"

"I was planning to secure myself. In my quarters. With fortified force-fields. And give only Captain Argent the access codes."

No. No way. "You… were planning to die in there."

"Not all Vulcans perish without a mate."

"But most do."

D'rek raises an eyebrow. He looks more normal, now that he isn't all up in Stiles's face, like being near Stiles drives him even further up the wall than he already is. "That is irrelevant to this discussion."

"Irr - no, it's not. It's fucking _not_ \- "

"I will not coerce you. You will not consent to save my life."

"Don't tell me what I - I mean, sure, you're my commander, but don't - "

"You will consent to me because you desire me."

Stiles… doesn't even know what to say to that. No, wait, he does. "Just when I think you're being altruistic - "

"Altruism is illogical."

"…right. Just when I think you're trying not to pressure me into saying yes, you - pressure me into saying yes. It doesn't matter whether you're guilt-tripping me with your impending death or just being some sort of invasive, arrogant jackass that uses a guy's private fantasies against him, it still makes you a total bastard - "

"Your insubordination - "

" _Fuck_ my insubordination. Sir."

D'rek is silent. Watching Stiles.

Oops. Maybe Stiles shouldn't have said 'fuck' out loud. Not when D'rek's still only a foot away, and in the grip of a genetically predetermined mating cycle that predates - by little more than three goddamn weeks - a frenzy of violent, absolutely uncontrollable fucking. "I'll… speak to Danee. Lieutenant Danee. I should have a reply for you when I'm done."

"What time will that be."

Vulcans seem to lose the ability to use question-marks when in the midst of involuntary sexual arousal. Interesting tidbit. _That_ definitely wasn't in the files released by the Vulcan High Council. "Um. By 1700 hours, I think? The lieutenant's made a free spot for me, right about then."

D'rek takes another step away.

Stiles inches sideways along the door.

It immediately swishes open.

D'rek only looks at Stiles once, before leaving, but that single glance burns, like a shot of tequila, and Stiles gasps. There's - everything in that glance. Everything.

"Sleep well, Ensign," says D'rek, somehow managing to pull on a mask of maybe-I'm-okay-and-not-planning-to-kill-everyone, which is, Stiles realizes, the same mask he's been wearing for weeks.

Stiles still hasn't replied to D'rek - because he can't, because he's too busy trying not to cream and/or piss his own pants - when the door slides shut.

This time, Stiles does slump.

D'rek's gone. The most insistent - and downright creepy - marriage proposal ever made has just come to an end.

Stiles's problems, though, are just beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

The thing is, Stiles knows exactly what he's going to do. He knows, so it's almost pointless to go through the motions of talking to Captain Argent and Lieutenant Danee, pretending like there's an option, like he isn't going to give himself to D'rek, anyway. There just isn't any other choice if D'rek's - if anyone's - life is in the balance. The Pon Farr is a medical condition, and it isn't D'rek's fault any more than having moles in interesting places is Stiles's fault. Stiles is acutely aware that he isn't the only victim of what's happening; in fact, he's the lesser victim, because it's not like _he's_ going to die if he doesn't screw someone senseless.

A very specific someone.

Someone that, nominally at least, can say no.

Stiles isn't about to say no. But he explores that possibility with Danee, out of a sort of morbid curiosity, and if Danee picks up on that morbidity on account of being an empath, he doesn't let on. Then again, Danee doesn't let much of anything on.

"Remember that you're making a lifetime commitment, if you go through with this." Danee folds his hands in his lap, leaning back against his chair. "Although, if it proves unbearable to you at any point, you _can_ have the telepathic bond broken, and have D'rek re-bonded with someone else."

Stiles massages his forehead. "If D'rek finds someone else."

"If."

"That's a pretty big if, isn't it?"

"It's statistically unlikely. But not impossible. Depending, of course, on the fact that the other person is willing to bond with D'rek in your stead."

Like that'll ever happen.

"So there is, technically, a way for you to go through with this as a temporary measure, as a life-saving procedure - "

"'Procedure'?" Stiles snorts. "It's wild monkey sex."

" - and then have the bond broken, giving D'rek another seven years of life in which to find another mate. It can be done."

"Will breaking the bond damage him, though? Neurologically?"

"It might. When Vulcan was destroyed, the mate-bonds broken between those on the surface and those off-planet presented in myriad different ways. Some of the surviving mates were grief-stricken but otherwise normal, whereas others... lost most of their higher-order functions. In a few cases, they even lost mobility."

"They were paralyzed?"

"Yes."

"Fuck."

"That _is_ the solution." Danee's voice is dry.

Stiles glowers at him. "You're about as helpful as a brick to the head."

"I apologize."

"Don't. This is my problem, and whinging about it to you ain't gonna change the fact that I have to take responsibility for it."

"You are showing remarkable courage, Ensign Stilinski."

"I'm showing perfectly normal despair, is what."

Danee's expression softens slightly. "Whichever path you choose, no one will blame you for the consequences."

Stiles clenches his fists. "Why _not_?"

"Because you didn't choose to be in this situation."

"Neither did D'rek! You think a Vulcan would choose a fragile little Human for a mate, given the chance? The only reason D'rek is even interested in me is - " Stiles stops, wonders what he's given away. "Sorry."

Danee's eyes are keen. "Commander D'rek has demonstrated ample respect for you and your abilities. An attraction without the Pon Farr may have been possible."

"Acknowledging someone professionally and wanting to jump their bones are two different things."

"Ensign," says Danee, "are you saying you _want_ the First Officer to be attracted to you, but not in a way forced by the Pon Farr?"

Stiles blushes. "I didn't say that."

"You all but said that."

"Let's focus on the 'but'. Jesus."

Danee's lips are twitching. "I did not know you were a follower of that particular Terran religion."

"I'm not. Not really. I'm just on the verge of losing my mind, is all."

"I have often considered religious belief to be a form of insanity. Magical thinking, as it were."

"Aren't you supposed to empathize with religious people? Being an empath, and all?"

"I can empathize without approving."

"Wow. You're the most hardass empath I've ever met."

Danee smiles. "Thank you for the compliment."

It wasn't a compliment. But whatever. "Captain Argent says he's ready to protect me no matter what, and even send D'rek off-ship, if I don't want to participate in this."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"I feel like a heel, what do you think? Sending D'rek off-ship in some shuttle would be the same as asking him to... to die alone, out there in the middle of space, and I - I didn't save his life once to see him lose it so soon."

"Your sentiments are noble."

"My sentiments are damned annoying." Stiles huffs. "Fine, I think I know everything I need to know in order to decide."

"But you've already decided," Danee says, perceptive as ever. "Haven't you?"

Stiles is sorely tempted to flip him the bird. Instead, Stiles grits his teeth, salutes, and gets the hell out of Danee's office.

 

* * *

 

The last thing Stiles does before notifying D'rek of his decision is to call Scott (and Allysonne). What Stiles _should_ be doing is calling his dad, but he's just not ready to do that, partly because his dad wouldn't let Stiles go ahead with this, and Stiles knows he has to. He just - he has to. Maybe Stiles will tell his dad when it's done, when he's bonded, and hope his dad won't freak out too much.

Scott takes the whole thing in stride, but then, that's Scott; maybe it's all that pot he smokes, but he's more Zen than most people can even try to be. Allysonne's reaction is:

"I'll kill him."

"Thanks, but no thanks," Stiles says, drily. "I'm fine."

"She's just being protective," Scott says, lounging back in his bed in front of the holo-screen, with Allysonne sitting next to him. "But dude, seriously? It's kind of awesome, saving a guy's life and ending up bonded to him after hardcore sex. It's like a holovid. This is something you'll be able to brag about to your grandkids."

"First, I won't be able to _have_ grandkids; second, I'm not sure what kind of grandkids you think I'd have, that I'd be able to boast about 'hardcore sex' to them."

"Disregard Scott," says Allysonne, fiercely. Her brows are drawn down and her mouth is fixed in what Stiles privately thinks of as her 'death scowl'. "I will be honored to take this D'rek's," she spits his name, "head."

Stiles's eyebrows climb. "Whoa, whoa, hold on. No heads on pikes. I know that's how they settle things on your home-planet, but - "

"If he will not face me in direct combat, I will skewer him with my lance."

"Hey," says Scott, mournfully. "I thought you'd only ever skewer _me_ with your lance."

Stiles holds up his hands. "Stop. Stop right there. _Way_ more information than I needed about your sex life or the physiology of Allysonne's species, okay?"

"We are an all-female population," Allysonne says. "That is why some of us are equipped with secondary - "

"Stop!" Stiles says, desperately. "I get it. You're worried about me, so you wanna Hulk-smash D'rek, but this isn't D'rek's fault, either."

"His claiming you through moral coercion is in itself immoral," Allysonne says.

"Yeah, well, he's not doing it because he wants to. Vulcans don't enjoy their Pon Farr. It's something most of them would avoid altogether if they could help it. Too emotionally compromising."

"Vulcans are cowards," Allysonne declares.

"Um." Stiles shakes his head. "I'll just agree to disagree with you, there. But _please_ , either of you, don't tell my dad. I wanna tell him myself, when I want to, got it?"

"Got it," says Scott. "You can trust us, man."

"You have my word," says Allysonne, solemnly, and her eyes warm with the concern she extends to those she considers family - and thus, those she considers under her protection. "If at any time you feel that he is forcing you or making you do anything you do not wish to do, you must inform your captain _and_ me. I will arrive as swiftly as I can and will sever D'rek's head from his shoulders."

"No beheadings, remember?"

"It'll be a clean cut," Allysonne complains, pouting, but there's a glitter of humor in her eyes, now. "Stiles of the Stilinskis, take care of yourself."

"Thanks. You guys, too."

"You know we love you," says Scott, and Stiles tries to be manly and not to, like, choke up. Not that he's choking up. Because he's not.

"I know," he manages at last, before he hangs up. "Me, too."

 

* * *

 

At 1734 hours, after his final shift on the bridge - from which D'rek had been conspicuously absent - Stiles returns to his quarters, changes into his pajamas and takes a deep breath.

It's time.

 _You can do this_ , Stiles says to himself, unconvincingly, then changes it to, _You_ should _do this_ , which works better.

Stiles pages D'rek's combadge, and D'rek takes the call immediately - the clunking in the background sounds like he's in Engineering.

"Ensign," says D'rek, and his voice is -

It's somehow a relief to hear it, although it's also terrifying. Stiles can't make sense of his limbic system - is it trying to get him to be afraid or not? "Commander," says Stiles, but then his words just... dry up.

There is a long moment of silence.

And another long moment of silence. The clunking continues, with Chief Engineer Finstock's voice booming in the distance - and receding even further, as if D'rek is walking away from where people are and into a more private place. Eventually, all background sound disappears, except for D'rek's breathing - which is too regular, artificially regular, as if he's disciplining himself.

"What is your decision," D'rek states, in one of those non-questions of his.

"My answer," Stiles says, heart thundering, "is yes."

D'rek goes silent. When he finally speaks, his voice is ragged, rough, deep with want. It makes Stiles flush, just to hear it, because he's never been _wanted_ like this. "I see."

"How should we - " Stiles unsticks his throat. "How do we do this?"

"We have three weeks," D'rek says, "before the onset of the first fever. In those three weeks, it might be best for you to accustom yourself to me via a system similar to Human courtship, augmented with elements of Vulcan courtship."

Courtship? "Uh," says Stiles, wondering when they got sent back in time. "What?"

"I am the suitor, of course; hence the onus is on me to plan the courtship. I suggest one meeting per day, possibly for dinner, followed by a short period of telepathic contact, in order to prepare you for the meld - in a public space, of course, until you grow comfortable enough with me to see me in my quarters."

"Y-your quarters?" The thought of being alone with D'rek and D'rek's desire is intimidating, to say the least. "But you said you couldn't be alone with me for 'extended periods of time' without - y'know."

"Specify."

"Sexual contact," Stiles almost squeaks.

"Yes," D'rek agrees. "That is why you will not have to accept any invitation into my quarters until you feel comfortable."

"What if I don't accept any invitations, at all? Until I have to? Until the - until the fever starts?"

"Then it will be difficult," says D'rek, "for you. To be sexually close to me in a state of violent extremity, without having prior knowledge of my sexual behavior."

"What you're saying is that we should date - and interact telepathically - for a short time, and have sex as soon as possible?"

"As soon as you are comfortable," D'rek repeats.

"Screw that. No pun intended. What you're _saying_ is that the sooner I get in the sack with you, the easier it'll be on me during your heat. That's what you're saying, isn't it?"

"Yes," says D'rek, grudgingly.

"How do I know you're not lying? That you don't just wanna fuck me as quickly as you can?"

"Vulcans do not lie," says D'rek, and Stiles rolls his eyes so hard, D'rek must be able to hear 'em.

"Yeah, right. And Humans can't fly, but the've invented space-ships and guess what? Intergalactic flying."

"I take your point."

"Do you?"

"You will have dinner with me after your evening shift, tomorrow night. It will take place in the Replimat, during what is typically termed 'rush hour', so you can be assured that I will not make any attempt at sexual intimacy. I will, however, attempt telepathic intimacy after dinner, through a brief palm-to-palm touch, to acclimatize your mind to mine."

D'rek isn't so much asking him out on a date as _commanding_ him out on one, but Stiles ignores that in favor of asking a more pressing question. "Won't you feel... disturbed? Trying to connect with me telepathically in public? I thought Vulcans preferred privacy for that sorta thing."

"They do," says D'rek.

"And?" Stiles prompts.

"And this is not an ideal circumstance. I cannot risk privacy with you until you are ready for sex."

Stiles's ears are so hot, they must be on literal fire. "Right. So, uh, we go out on dinner-dates everyday, until I'm okay with - with taking things further, sexually. And after that, we... go to your quarters and have sex? Every night? Until the peak of your Pon Farr?"

"Your likelihood of physical or psychical injury is minimized if you have prior sexual contact with me, and the bond has begun to be stabilized."

"Great. No pressure to have sex with you ASAP, then. Just a potential 'physical or psychical injury' if I don't. Uh-huh."

"I do not mean to put you under pressure."

"Sure you don't."

"I do not. I would never wish to compel you into consenting to me."

 _And yet that's what you're doing, whether you like it or not_. "All right. Dinner tomorrow, after my shift. Should I book us a table at the Replimat?"

"Please," says D'rek, "let me."

The sound of 'please' stumps Stiles, for some reason, so he finds himself nodding before he remembers that D'rek can't see him over the combadge. "You've actually read up on this Human courtship stuff, haven't you?"

"It seemed wise."

The idea of D'rek looking up things like 'Valentine's Day' and 'splitting the bill' and 'mistletoe' is hella funny. And sweet, in a vaguely horrifying way. "Should I read something about Vulcan courtship? Whatever's available, anyway?"

"All you need to know," D'rek says, "is that the simple act of touching hands is considered deeply affectionate."

"Oh," says Stiles. "Oh." Hand-holding, he can do... even if, for D'rek, it might be like getting to second base, or something. "See you, then."

"Tomorrow," D'rek affirms, and disconnects.

Stiles sits there, staring at his own badge, wondering just what he's agreed to.

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

The Replimat is crowded when Stiles gets there. He's nervous and in casual-wear he's agonized over for far too long, because he has no clue what to wear on a first date with a Vulcan. He's settled on a collared shirt and worn jeans, a decision he begins to regret once he sees other couples dressed to the nines, but then he comforts himself by thinking that this isn't a normal date, and he doesn't want to seem like he's trying too hard. His trying or not trying is irrelevant to how things are gonna end up, anyway; both he and D'rek know how this farce of a 'courtship' is going to end.

D'rek turns out to be waiting for him in a partially-shaded corner booth, more private than most of the tables in the Replimat. He gets up when Stiles approaches, and then (hilariously) pulls out a chair for Stiles to sit on. Perhaps he's been reading up on Human courtship rituals a little too much.

Stiles takes his seat, nonplussed by D'rek's appearance. D'rek is dressed in fine black trousers and a black, leather-lined tunic that reaches to mid-thigh. He looks... sexy, Stiles supposes, in a very Vulcan way. The cut of his tunic is elegant and form-fitting and draws attention to the breadth of his chest and its musculature.

Stiles feels even more uncomfortable in his simple jeans-and-shirt combo, but D'rek's gaze still rakes over him, from head to foot, with a thinly veiled hunger.

Maybe Stiles should stop worrying about being attractive enough. That clearly isn't the problem, here. If anything, Stiles should've tarred and feathered himself to look _less_ attractive; maybe that'll make it less likely for D'rek to start mauling him in public.

D'rek sits down on his own chair, outwardly poised, but the way he doesn't take his eyes off Stiles, even for a second, tells Stiles all he needs to know.

"So," says Stiles, feeling rather like a rabbit trapped at a dining-table with a tiger. "What're we having?"

D'rek stares at him for another unblinking moment, then says: "I thought that, if you were not averse to experimentation, I might introduce you to some Vulcan cuisine."

Stiles wonders if the 'experimentation' line is a veiled flirtation, but it can't be, because D'rek doesn't work that way. Does he? "All right," Stiles says. "Sure. I've never really... Vulcans are vegetarian, aren't they?"

"Yes. But you can rest assured that I will never object to your eating meat, if you prefer."

"Oh." Blind-sided by the sudden realization that D'rek is pretty much discussing the terms of their 'marriage', Stiles can't think of an appropriate response. "I... I won't ever try to get you to eat meat, either." That should be the right thing to say, shouldn't it?

D'rek doesn't beam - he's _D'rek_ \- but the line of his shoulders relaxes. "I am gratified to hear that. Excuse me while I order our meal."

So saying, D'rek disappears for a few minutes, returning with a tray heaped with dishes. For all that they're replicator food, the dishes look and smell damned good - hot and steaming and fragrant. D'rek lays each plate out on the table, with a grace one might expect from a professional waiter, and then sits back down opposite Stiles.

"This," says D'rek, gesturing at a freshly-baked pile of flatbread, "is _kreila_ , a popular bread. And this," he points at a colorful mix of vegetables, "is _mashya_ , a tuberous vegetable, seasoned with _forati_ sauce - a tart red sauce similar to that of Italian tomato sauce. Here, we have shredded _plomeek_ salad, similar to pickled Terran radishes, and for dessert," D'rek touches the edge of a large bowl filled with gleaming blue fruit that resemble large, beautiful pearls, "we have _pla-savas_ , a sweet fruit with no Terran equivalent, although some say that it is similar - in appearance, if not in taste - to blueberries."

It's a very fresh, healthy meal; Vulcans are obviously too rational to indulge in junk food or fried stuff, the way Humans are. But it still smells very promising, so Stiles allows D'rek to serve him each item and then tell him how to eat it.

"The bread is used to sop up the _forati_ sauce," D'rek advises, and Stiles does just that, dipping the pale golden bread in the sauce until it's part-crispy, part-soggy, and then eating it.

Whoa. The taste is amazing. "Thish ish delicious," Stiles says, with his mouth full, before he remembers his manners and swallows. "Um, I mean, the flavors go together really well. The bread sort of reminds me of polenta, the way it tastes. Have you ever tried polenta?"

"No," says D'rek, but manages to project a polite sort of interest, so Stiles continues.

"You should. You'll love it. If you like this, I mean."

"I do," says D'rek, still looking at Stiles rather than at his own food. "I like it very much."

Okay.

Okay, that was -

That was _definitely_ D'rek hitting on him. A Vulcan wouldn't normally admit to 'liking' anything.

The ensuing silence swiftly grows awkward, so Stiles asks, somewhat desperately: "What was your favorite food, as a kid?"

A shadow crosses D'rek's face, and Stiles feels like kicking himself - way to remind D'rek about the world he lost, about the family he lost. Stiles doesn't much like it when people ask about his childhood, too, or about his mother. He should've remembered. He should've -

"I'm sorry," Stiles says.

"No. Do not be. If we are to bond, then you will know that of me, and more." D'rek looks at him evenly. "Having a favorite food is irrational, and yet, as a child that had yet to master rational thought, I did have a favorite. It was _hirat_. A kind of grape." 

"You mean to say you don't have a favorite food anymore? C'mon, you've gotta be kidding me."

"I am not," D'rek says, "'kidding' you."

"Uh-huh. You're so rational that you don't have a favorite _anything_?"

"I do now," D'rek says, studying him, hinting at the same heavy-handed insinuation as before.

Oh, god. D'rek flirting - or attempting to flirt - is both too frightening and too funny for Stiles to focus on his meal. "Look," Stiles says, "that stops right now."

"What must stop?"

"You. Doing that. Flirting with me. Or whatever you're - "

"I am merely reminding you of the purpose for which we are here."

"You think I'm not painfully aware of that _purpose_?" Stiles snaps, before he can stop himself.

D'rek blinks at him. "I - "

"No, that's - " Stiles rubs a hand over his face. "Have you ever done this before?"

"Define 'this'."

"Dating. Taking someone out for dinner."

"In the context of a courtship?"

"In the context of a courtship." Stiles nearly bites his tongue at the 'courtship' thing - he is never going to get used to that - but if that's what D'rek's calling it, he might as well call it that, too.

"No."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Holy crap," Stiles says. "How is that - how old are you, again?"

"I am no longer an adolescent as per Vulcan reckoning."

"What's the Human equivalent of your age, then? Humor me."

"If I calculate my Human age, it is twenty-four years, eight months and nine days."

"And you've _never_...? What about your first Pon Farr?"

"It occurred when I was seventeen."

"Didn't you take your partner out, then?"

"It was not like that," D'rek says, his tone oddly flat, as though he doesn't want to talk about this, but is doing it for Stiles's sake. "I had found no mate, so a temporary stand-in was arranged. I almost did not survive, with the partner chosen for me. While we were telepathically compatible enough for a mate-bond to be established, she... did not wish to bond with me."

Stiles boggles. D'rek's stupidly attractive; Stiles can't imagine another member of his own species turning him down. "Why?"

"She wished to remain the sole inheritor of her family's fortunes, and a mate-bond with me, a Vulcan of lower rank, would have had her ceding her right of inheritance to her younger sibling. She was also..." Here, D'rek hesitates, and it's so strange to see him hesitate over anything that Stiles gapes. "While she was a Vulcan, I believe she enjoyed tormenting me."

"That doesn't sound very Vulcan," Stiles says, because what else _can_ he say? To the revelation that the young D'rek's first experience with sexuality was with a sadist?

"No," says D'rek, quietly. "It was not."

"So you've never dated anyone. Or just... wanted anyone? For the heck of it?"

"Vulcans do not experience sexual desire 'for the heck of it'."

"That isn't a lot of fun."

"Vulcans do not experience 'fun'."

"Man, with everything you're telling me, I'm glad I was born Human, lemme tell ya that. No offense."

"None taken."

With that, the conversation is magically steered toward safer waters, at least for the duration of dessert, which is awesome. Stiles concentrates on not making a production out of eating the _pla-savas_ , because the last thing he wants is to turn D'rek on even more. He still ends up with some juice from the berries trickling down his fingers, which he conscientiously wipes clean on his napkin instead of just licking them clean, like he usually would've done. Despite that, D'rek's eyes still linger on Stiles's juice-slick mouth for a dangerously long time, until Stiles distracts him by asking about what he was doing down in Engineering, yesterday, and whether it had anything to do with Finstock's newly-acquired store of dilithium crystals.

When they're done with dinner, D'rek stretches his hand across the table with an expectant look on his face, and Stiles, after taking a steadying breath, stretches out his own.

The moment their fingers touch, Stiles feels a _spark_ at the base of his skull, a spark that grows brighter and spreads outward, illuminating everything, leaving Stiles feeling transparent and fragile and exposed. D'rek can read his thoughts, now. D'rek can see -

"I will see nothing you do not wish me to," D'rek says. "This is not a full mind-meld, and I... would not presume to establish one without your consent. You may relax."

"Great," Stiles mutters, acutely aware of D'rek's fingers resting in his palm, stroking it gently, with D'rek's thumb occasionally brushing his wrist. It's somehow incredibly intimate, and arousing in a way Stiles doesn't entirely know what to do with.

D'rek's eyelids dip; his mouth parts. "You find this pleasurable," he murmurs, and Stiles tries and fails not to flush.

"Yeah, well, this is the closest I've been to someone in - in a long time," Stiles says, and gasps softly when D'rek slowly runs his fingernails down the center of Stiles's palm, a barely-there scrape of sensation that sends shivers up Stiles's arm.

"This is more than mere closeness," D'rek says. "If you wish to share a thought or an experience with me, you have only to focus on it, and I will know."

"How about you? Don't you want to share anything?"

"Perhaps not today," D'rek says. "It might be overwhelming, for you, given that this is our first... 'date'."

"I'm... not sure I wanna share anything today, either. It's weird enough to have you in my head, for now."

"I see."

Something like a breeze ruffles through Stiles's mind, like an internal sigh, and then, D'rek is pulling back. Stiles almost reaches for his hand again, as if on automatic, before returning to himself with a start. He feels cold, somehow - empty - like there was a warm embrace around his mind that has now faded to nothingness, leaving him all on his own. Alone.

It's -

It's not what he'd expected to feel, when he signed on for this. "You didn't mention it'd feel nice," Stiles says, almost accusingly, because he's already beginning to resent how _good_ that had been, and how starved he now feels for it. If it's like this every time, Stiles is gonna develop a goddamn addiction. And he doesn't like being dependent on anything. Or anyone.

D'rek raises his eyebrows. "I had not anticipated that you would experience it as positively as a Vulcan. You are, evidently, well-suited for the bond."

"I didn't ask to be," Stiles retorts, and D'rek just regards him. Calmly. It seems the telepathic contact he's had with Stiles, even without any significant exchange of information, has been pacifying.

"Nevertheless, I must thank you for coming here, today. And for... letting me touch you."

"Looks like it helped."

"Not as much as a complete meld, but it was pleasant, yes."

"Wow. A Vulcan, calling something 'pleasant'? That's gotta break some records."

"Being in your company is exceedingly pleasant."

"Exceedingly?" Stiles laughs. "Hold up, Commander. You don't need to flatter me _that_ much."

"I am not flattering you. I am only stating a fact. And please, call me by my name."

"Um. We're still on-board, and you're still my superior officer - "

"Neither of us is on duty."

"Fine," says Stiles, and feels oddly clumsy and out-of-sorts when he says, "D'rek." The name burns its way past his lips, like a brand, leaving its mark on Stiles.

D'rek catches his breath. The hunger is back in his eyes, just like that, a flare of heat and darkness - and Stiles gets the distinct feeling that he should leave before it grows even further. Call it a survival instinct, but it's telling Stiles he should be _gone_ , or D'rek might just pin him down with those strong arms and have him on the table, bystanders be damned.

"Um," says Stiles. "It was fun, tonight. Dinner. I. I think I oughta go, now."

"Yes," D'rek says, splaying his hands out on the table in front of him, as if keeping himself from reaching for Stiles. "You should go."

"Right. Uh. G'night, then."

"Good night."

Stiles gets up, takes a few hasty steps away from D'rek, and leaves the Replimat as soon as he can.

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I change several things about Vulcan telepathy in order to make the fusion work better; you'll know them when you see them. Also, the fact that the observation deck has private couches for necking is my attempt to make a starship a more romance-friendly place, and is by no means true to canon. That I know of. Er.

* * *

 

The one thing Stiles hadn't considered was that the crew would find out about him dating D'rek almost immediately. But they do find out, because it's kind of impossible not to notice the broad-shouldered First Officer repeatedly visiting the Replimat with a comparatively gangly ensign in tow. The same gangly ensign that saved his life.

The consensus seems to be split between people thinking of it as the most romantic thing ever, and a fearful attitude of let's-not-mention-it-lest-Commander-D'rek-kills-us-for-speculating-on-his-sex-life. Of course, nobody (other than the captain, the doctor and Danee) knows about the Pon Farr, so it's no wonder that the crew thinks of it as just another relationship blossoming on the ship, after a life-changing - or in this case, life-saving - situation.

Stiles tries to avoid talking about it with the ensigns that seem to find him even more fascinating, now, because it's difficult not to wince when they swoon and sigh about how 'in love' D'rek is, when in fact it's more like 'in heat'. Stiles doesn't have any illusions about - about anything. It's tough to act like he does.

Meanwhile, he continues to meet D'rek for dinner, or alternatively for walks down the promenade, or, when the mood strikes them, the observation deck. They've had a few more sessions of increasingly intimate hand-holding, in which Stiles has shared some simple experiences that he doesn't feel too vulnerable sharing, like the taste of his favorite ice-cream (cookies 'n' cream from Ben & Jerry's) or the memory of getting his acceptance letter into Starfleet, followed by a super-tight hug from his dad.

D'rek soaks it all in, hungrily, and offers experiences of his own in return: the blazing, arid deserts of Vulcan; his beloved childhood pet, a _sehlat_ named Garok, whose fur was as velvet-soft as its fangs were sharp; games of logic with his elder sister, L'ora; and the touch of his mother's hand on his forehead, from an incident in his early youth when he was ill.

D'rek's emotions and memories are extremely vivid and very, very rich, which startles Stiles, as he'd thought that Vulcans didn't feel emotions with such intensity and depth. Stiles is beginning to realize, however, that Vulcans just _control_ their emotions and prevent them from influencing their actions, which is another thing altogether from not having emotions, at all.

It's comforting to Stiles, this solid sense of commonality between them, the knowledge that they both care deeply about the things that matter to them, even if their caring expresses itself in different ways.

Maybe this can work, after all. Stiles can't imagine wanting things in a life-partner that D'rek can't offer him. D'rek is handsome - almost overwhelmingly attractive, actually - but he's also serious about his work and his relationships. He's got a vein of dark humor somewhere under all that seriousness, too, that Stiles delights in discovering whenever D'rek is relaxed enough to let it show, and there's no doubt whatsoever that after committing himself to Stiles, D'rek will be committed to him for life. D'rek's sense of duty is as crucial to him as his sense of compassion - a compassion Stiles only knows about after his many glimpses into D'rek's mind. (D'rek never lets it show; if he sends a sick lieutenant off-duty sooner, he always phrases it in language about 'efficiency' and 'performance', but Stiles now knows that D'rek does feel a spark of concern. More than a spark, often enough.)

So, D'rek is quite the catch. What else is new? It's just that Stiles isn't nearly as much of a catch, even if he's got his incredibly high IQ going for him. That's about it. He isn't stunningly beautiful, like the Lydia Martins and the Jackson Whittemores of the world. Sure, D'rek might want him desperately, but it's just because of the Pon Farr. Stiles isn't objectively appealing. He isn't great with people like Danee is, either, nor does he command respect like Captain Argent does. Granted, no one is good at _everything_ , but Stiles still feels like the lesser half of the equation, here - which means it isn't much of an equation, at all.

Stiles takes care not to think such thoughts when he's with D'rek, though, because that would be humiliating. Instead, he keeps his attacks of nerves to himself, hoping that they'll get better by the time he has to attempt a full mind-meld with D'rek. In the meantime, he allows himself brief moments of wallowing in the knowledge that he's younger, less qualified, less accomplished and less hunky than D'rek. Pretty much the only thing Stiles is more seasoned in is sex, but even that isn't by much, given that Stiles has slept with a grand total of three people in his life, one of which was a girlfriend he dated for little more than two weeks, back on the base, before she dumped him for being too 'clingy'.

Wryly, Stiles reflects that clinginess isn't gonna be a problem when dating telepathically bonded Vulcans. If anything, Stiles is going to be the one demanding more personal space, not D'rek.

It isn't the relief it should be.

 

* * *

 

They're on the observation deck, this time, which is far less crowded than the Replimat, enough to give them the illusion of solitude unless they squint into the darkness to see other couples giggling and dragging each other into the covered, cubicle-like couches scattered throughout the place. Despite being Starfleet officers, necking while stargazing remains part of the standard romantic repertoire for crew-members on the ship.

It's still bizarre to be here with First Officer D'rek, of all people, let alone here with First Officer D'rek on a couch of their own, holding hands.

Stiles looks down at their linked fingers, aware at the same time of D'rek's presence in his mind, warm as always, but slightly... tense. Vulcan-tense, at any rate.

"Um. D'rek? Is there something - "

"Stiles," says D'rek, and for a moment, his grip on Stiles's hand tightens to the point where it's painful. He loosens it quickly, but Stiles knows how significant even that momentary loss of control was.

"What is it?" Stiles asks, uncertainly.

"It is time," says D'rek, "for me to share by far the most important experience of my life."

Stiles blinks. Several times. And then realizes what D'rek means. "Oh," he says, feeling an anxious swoop low in his belly. " _Oh_. You don't have to - "

"I have to," says D'rek, grimly. "We have been progressing very well, developing our telepathic contact with every 'date', and it is no longer possible or me to share anything further of myself before also sharing this."

"You were shielding me from it," Stiles realizes, and feels like a fool for thinking he was protecting D'rek from his petty anxieties when D'rek was protecting him from... from _this_.

"Once I share this, the innermost facets of my mind will naturally unlock themselves to you. Without sharing this, I cannot effectively establish a meld."

"We're," Stiles shifts anxiously, "so we're, uh, getting there? Already?"

"It has been our sixth meeting."

"Almost a week," Stiles agrees, hoping that his voice isn't unsteady. Crap. They're almost a third of the way to the peak of the Pon Farr. Yeah, it's about time they had a proper meld.

"Please," D'rek says, "allow me to touch your face. I promise that I will not seek out any of your thoughts that you do not first offer to me. If you wish, you need not offer any thoughts, at all. This exercise is primarily for the sharing of my experiences, not yours, and touching your face will make the meld... easier."

"Okay," Stiles manages, around a tight throat. "Okay."

D'rek raises his hands with exaggerated slowness, as if approaching a skittish creature, and Stiles finds that so ludicrous that he grabs D'rek's hands and places them on his own face, cupping them, keeping them there.

"Here," he says. "Go - go ahead."

"Are you certain?" D'rek asks, one last time.

The clasp of D'rek's palms is even warmer than the clasp of his mind; Vulcan body temperature is far higher than a Human's, and Stiles wonders if he feels cool to D'rek, if he feels soothing. Then, he wonders if anything can be soothing enough for what D'rek's been through, for what he's going to share today.

"You are... kind," D'rek says, and Stiles all but flinches.

"No," Stiles says, "I'm not."

"Why do you object to a favorable interpretation of your personality?"

"Because it's just that - an interpretation."

"There are times when your refusal to accept emotionally-biased conclusions is on par with a Vulcan's."

"Well," says Stiles, smiling mirthlessly, "guess that makes me even more perfect for you, huh?"

D'rek just watches him - inside and out - and the sensation of D'rek's gaze upon him is total, all-consuming, like being wrapped in a dark blue flame. "My mind to your mind," D'rek says, spreading out his hands until his fingers are touching the traditional meld-points - Stiles's temples and the hinge of his jaw. "My thoughts to your thoughts."

And Stiles... opens.

He just _opens_ , like it's the most natural thing in the world, like all D'rek had to do was touch him the right way to get there, to get inside him, and maybe it's been all the preparation in the form of mini-melds, so far, but Stiles feels his consciousness part around D'rek like a pool of water around a foot sliding gradually into it, with barely a whisper of disturbance, with barely a ripple on the surface.

It's such a gentle cleaving that it feels almost erotic, for an instant - a touch upon the deepest part of himself, an exposure so absolute that mere bodily nudity cannot compare to it. But then, Stiles feels D'rek open in return, and it's -

The shock of it nearly knocks him back. That isn't just a thought D'rek is sharing. It's a -

It's a _scream_.

Stiles is vaguely aware of his body trying to jerk backward, away from D'rek, until it almost falls off the couch - but D'rek keeps a hold on him, keeps Stiles where he is, even as Stiles feels the scream fill him and fill him and replace all of his own thoughts until Stiles is one single, agonizing, unending _screech_ , his head filled with a red, buzzing noise that builds and builds in volume until Stiles's mind is on the verge of shattering around it, like glass.

It is then that D'rek draws away.

Stiles returns to his body, as if dropped back into it, and becomes aware that he has tears on his cheeks.

His hands are shaking.

His entire _body_ is shaking -

D'rek immediately moves closer, wraps his arms around Stiles, but Stiles struggles against him for a blind moment, like a newborn, his ears still ringing.

"What," Stiles says, after a while, his tongue strangely elastic in his mouth, like it's been burned. All he can taste is ash. "Why - "

"It is something all Vulcans share," says D'rek, himself not looking perturbed in the least, but Stiles knows him enough to know that it's just an appearance, now, and Stiles can't believe that D'rek carries that around with him everywhere, that he can even _live_ with that inside him.

"You - but how - "

"We call it," D'rek says, holding Stiles as Stiles's limbs shudder through the aftermath, "the Song of the Last Day."

"Song?" Stiles chokes out. "That isn't - "

"That is what all Vulcans heard, the day our planet died. It was a chain reaction - the pain of those on the planet, in their dying moments, transferring to the minds of those they were bonded to - their mates, their children, their parents. All Vulcans must have some manner of telepathic bond in order to be functional, be it a mate-bond or a parent-bond, and thus, all Vulcans experienced the death of their planet, even those of them that were not on the planet at the time."

"You felt it," Stiles says, his own voice sounding like it's been dragged over broken glass. "You _felt_ \- "

"Yes," says D'rek, and his face is motionless, utterly motionless, like he can't let any expression show on it, for fear of showing everything. "I felt."

Stiles sags against him, disbelieving, catching his breath. "And you... still feel it."

"Every day." D'rek's hand is ridiculously careful on Stiles's hair, as though Stiles is in more pain than he is, as if that's even _possible_. "But a mate-bond will do much to help."

Stiles takes several frantic, gulping breaths, trying to compose himself. D'rek pulls away, by increments, but suddenly, it's intolerable to let him go - to let him move away, to let him be alone in there, alone with that infernal _noise_ -

So Stiles surges forward and kisses him, hard, gripping the lapels of D'rek's tunic and jerking him closer, not giving a damn if this wasn't in the plan for the evening.

D'rek stills, then kisses back frantically, his mouth hotter than anything, hotter than hell, his tongue lashing Stiles's as he presses Stiles against the couch, tilting Stiles's head back and working cruel, grasping fingers into Stiles's hair, but Stiles _wants_ that, wants every bit of that cruelty, that force, wants D'rek to dash against him like a roiling ocean against the rocks -

But then D'rek is pulling back, panting, keeping Stiles pinned to the couch when Stiles tries to kiss him again.

"No," says D'rek, and he sounds like someone else, someone alien to Stiles in more ways than one, a stranger gone mad with need. " _No_ , you do not want it like this - "

"Don't tell me what I want - "

"But I know what you want. And this - this hurried thing, in a public space - you do not want that."

"What do I want?"

"You want to be loved," D'rek says, and in a sudden surge of rage, Stiles shoves him away.

" _Fuck_ you," Stiles snarls, harshly, and then laughs. "Or not."

So saying, he presses the button that raises the cover on their couch, and staggers out.

Somewhere within him, Stiles doesn't want to leave D'rek like that, but it's become unbearable to stay there, to stay with D'rek and let him suffer without being able to do anything about it. Without D'rek _letting_ him do anything about it.

Doesn't D'rek want him? Why did he stop, then?

Having had enough of self-contradictory Vulcans and their bloody condescension, Stiles heads back to his quarters to shower and jerk off. And then to put the whole business out of his mind, from the Song of the Last Day to the memory of D'rek's kiss - to forget all of it and sleep, even if he has to take sedatives to do it, because he feels like he's been awake for far too long, painfully awake, and all he needs now is rest.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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